Again
by Joodiff
Summary: Grace has something she needs to tell a dear friend... (Set in the same universe as "The Dinner Party".) Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 **Author's Note:** _this story features one of the "boring OCs" (direct quote from a review!) introduced in my fic "The Dinner Party". You don't have to have read that to read this one, but it might help. It was also a special request from Got Tea, who wanted to see the return of Simon in, um, a particular sort of conversation with Grace. So you can blame her, I guess. ;)_

* * *

 **Again**

by Joodiff

* * *

"Hang on a minute," Boyd growls as she gets to her feet, "we're still talking about Armstrong…"

"No," Grace contradicts without any ire, " _you're_ still talking about Armstrong. _I_ finished talking about Armstrong ten minutes ago when I told you – _unequivocally_ – that he's not a credible suspect. It's not simply that he doesn't fit the profile, either, and you know it. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's ten to one and I have a lunch date, remember?"

The accusatory dark glare from the other side of the desk doesn't abate. "Well, far be it from me to interfere with your social life. We'll just put the entire bloody investigation on hold until your calendar's clear, shall we?"

She knows what's infuriating him, and it's nothing at all to do with her refusal to entertain any of his theories about Bill Armstrong's involvement in the unsolved murder of a hapless French tourist, twenty-odd years ago. Picking up the thick bundle of paperwork he handed to her at the start of their heated debate, she says, "Look at O'Donnell again. If we discount his alibi – which even _you_ admit is sketchy – he's a much more likely candidate for such a random, haphazard killing."

"Grace – "

"No," she says, not for the first time in the last half hour or so. " _No_ , I'm not cancelling lunch, and failing that, _no_ , you can't come with me."

Boyd's scowl becomes even more formidable. " _Why_ not?"

"Because," she tells him, heading towards his office door. "Just _because_."

He's like a child, sometimes. A stubborn, wilful child who's far too fond of getting his own way. Even that, though, she wouldn't change about him, not really. Heading for the dingy corner of the squad room that's _still_ her temporary office despite months of complaining, Grace counts off the seconds until she hears heavy footsteps behind her. Eighteen. A few more than she expected, indicating that he's not quite as sure he's right to be annoyed as he could be. She'd never dare suggest such a thing to him, but she suspects he's mellowing a little with age. His voice is still a combative bark, however, as he challenges, "Why today?"

Not looking round as she gathers coat and bag, she asks, "Why not today?"

"I'm not comfortable with this, you know," he tells her, situating himself in an ideal position to block her escape. "You and Simon… it never ends well."

"It's _lunchtime_ , Boyd," she says, shaking her head. "What sort of mischief do you think we can _possibly_ get up to at lunchtime?"

"Do you _really_ want me to answer that?"

Only because they're virtually alone in the big subterranean room, Kat being occupied at her desk a good distance away, does she give him a knowing smirk in reply. Boyd's only response is to roll his eyes. A reaction far more eloquent than anything he could possibly give voice to. Pacing towards him, Grace wonders if he'll hold his ground, or grudgingly step back to allow her to pass unhindered. Subtle power games, played so well by both of them. At the very last moment he steps aside, not forcing her to break her stride. Offering him a sunny smile in return, she says, "I might be a bit late back."

"You do surprise me." His tone is dry, but he doesn't pursue the matter. The last few years have taught them both a lot about what's actually important, after all.

Heading up the metal steps from the basement, Grace allows her wandering thoughts to stray back to the night before, to the quiet, gentle evening they shared at his elegant townhouse in Greenwich. Good food, excellent wine. A long interesting, winding conversation that lasted until they retired to bed together at just after midnight. Just an ordinary domestic evening, unremarkable in every way, and all the more precious because of it. It's been three weeks now since… well, since everything changed between them yet again; long enough for regret to take hold, but she's still convinced that they've done the right thing. The right thing for _them_ , at least.

Leaving the building, she savours the sharp bite of the chilly December breeze. Once upon a time she would have complained vociferously about it. Not now. Nowadays even the punishing cold weather feels like a blessing.

The small urban park with its Victorian iron railings isn't far from the unlovely 'seventies structure that houses the CCU's headquarters, just a couple of streets away, and she reaches it only a few minutes after one o'clock. Fashionably late, or so she tells herself. Simon won't mind. Probably won't even notice, truth be told. Walking through the gateway, she's not altogether surprised by how quiet the park seems to be. In the summer it's always full of people at lunchtime, office workers, mainly, but with Christmas not too far away attendance has dropped sharply. On a bench not far from the main entrance she spots a burly, fair-haired figure with a sandy moustache. Doctor Simon Thompson, a fellow psychologist and a very good friend. He stands up as she approaches, his big frame looking even larger thanks to the thick winter coat he's wearing, and greets her with an effusive, "Darling, you're looking _amazing_."

"Flatterer," she tells him, submitting to enthusiastic cheek-kissing and an affectionate, all-encompassing embrace that's very close to a bear hug. "How are you? How's Ian?"

"Fine," is his jovial reply as she's released, "absolutely fine. Both of us, though Ian's _terribly_ busy with that dreadful Marsden case that seems to be dragging on and on. But how are _you_ , Grace? You're looking so much better than you were the last time we saw you."

Taking the words as the encouraging compliment she knows they're supposed to be, Grace settles herself on the bench with a light, "Thank you. I _feel_ so much better than I did the last time you saw me."

"Complete remission," Simon crows, sitting down next to her. "Such wonderful news."

"I've been so, so lucky," Grace tells him, meaning every word of it. "It seems the operation was a total success, and even the radiotherapy afterwards wasn't too bad."

"Better that than chemo, darling," he tells her, echoing what everyone else has said.

"Absolutely," she agrees, forcing the bright optimism that seems to be the only thing that deters extensive and intensive questioning about her well-being. "There are no guarantees, of course, but fingers crossed…"

"Oh, you'll be fine," is his cheerful riposte. "Only the good die young, that's what they say, isn't it? Shall we eat – I'm meeting Ian at three, and I'm damned sure your formidable ex will have something to say about it if you're not obediently back at your desk on time."

"Actually," she says, opening her overly-large shoulder bag in search of the unexciting pre-packed sandwiches she stopped to buy on her way to work, "he's become remarkably good at looking the other way since all this started."

Simon chuckles. "You mean, since he found out, given that originally you were obstinately refusing to tell him – against all my professional advice, I should add. I told you he would, didn't I?"

"Yes, yes, thank you," she mutters. "Gloating is unattractive, you know."

"Unlike Peter, who remains – to quote my better half who saw him in court recently – absolutely to die for."

"Hm," Grace says, deliberately noncommittal. She's not quite ready to discuss Boyd, not yet. Changing the subject, she inquires, "How was Mykonos?"

The reply is a flamboyant, "Every bit as wonderfully cliché as you'd expect for a ridiculously staid gay couple intent on enjoying some sun-drenched hedonism. We're _definitely_ going back. You should come with us, you know. Do you the power of good."

"Actually," she says, knowing she will be questioned about it at length, "I'm going to Nesebâr after Christmas."

Simon offers a disdainful snort in response. "Bulgaria, Grace. Bloody _Bulgaria_."

"What's wrong with Bulgaria?"

"What's _right_ with it?" he demands, as if her choice of destination is a personal affront. He shakes his head, and before she can comment, adds the predictable, "Alone?"

There's nothing subtle about Simon. Not when he's searching for new and exciting gossip. Hiding her slight smile, Grace admits, "Not entirely, no."

"Ah ha!" is the immediate and triumphant reply. "I _knew_ it! The moment you started to become difficult to get hold of in the evenings I said to Ian 'she's found herself a new man'. Why am I the last to know? _Outrageous_."

"Cheese and pickle," she says, ignoring his annoyance as she finally extracts their meagre lunch from her bag, "or ham and tomato, which would you prefer?"

He scowls at her. "Grace."

"What?"

Simon gives her a reproachful look. "So? Who is he, this new man of yours?"

"I don't have a new man." It may be an evasive answer, but it's technically the truth.

"Rubbish." Intelligent grey eyes consider her with incisive curiosity. "You can't kid a kidder, Grace."

"It's absolutely true," she tells him, enjoying herself, "there _is_ no new man."

"I see," he says, drawing the words out. "I'm asking the wrong question, aren't I?"

"What makes you think that?"

" _Years_ of professional experience," he replies. "Ham and tomato, I think, darling. Thank you."

He's been such a good friend to her over the last few years, Grace reflects as she hands him the appropriate wedge-shaped cardboard carton. Always willing to listen, day or night; happy to offer unsolicited advice, but never in the least bit offended if it's ignored. Affable, good-natured, and reliable, that's Simon. Loyal, as well, and utterly trustworthy. Witty, too, and notably sharp-tongued when it suits him, but rarely – if ever – with her. More than once he's been mistaken for her husband, a source of great amusement to them both. Watching him extracting his sandwich from its packaging, she decides not to keep him in suspense for too much longer. After all, wasn't part of the reason she suggested meeting for a quick _al fresco_ lunch in the first place to apprise him of her… change in circumstances?

She wonders what he'll say, how he'll react. Whether he'll be delighted or condemnatory. Either way, she knows she's facing an extensive, and doubtless prurient interrogation. In fact, she muses, there's no way at all that he's _not_ going to attempt to pry every last salacious detail out of her.

She'll probably capitulate, too. With Simon, she usually does. In the end.

"No wine?" he inquires, breaking into her thoughts as she unwraps her own sandwich.

"Sadly not," she tells him with some regret. "I have a very long and very tedious afternoon of routine paperwork ahead of me. Don't let anyone ever tell you that consulting for the police is all serial killers, glamour and excitement."

"One teeny-weeny glass won't hurt, darling," Simon assures her. "We could nip to the pub on the corner. I won't tell if you don't."

"You are _such_ a bad influence," Grace complains. It's half-hearted at best. "Another day, I promise."

"You're _far_ too professional," he grumbles, "though, talking of work, there's a job coming up at the Shawcroft Trust that has your name all over it. Heading up the team piloting a brand-new initiative to help keep ex-offenders with pre-diagnosed psychiatric conditions on the straight and narrow."

"Interesting, but – "

" – you already have a job," Simon finishes for her with a loud and deliberate sigh. "One that you enjoy _far_ too much. I know, I know. We'd pay you far more."

"That, I don't doubt for a moment," she says, taking a bite of her sandwich and realising for the first time how hungry she is. Breakfast at _Chez_ Boyd was a hurried, chaotic affair, and one that now feels as if it was an entire lifetime ago.

Simon chews, swallows, and then says, "You really should demand a pay rise from His Lordship. Pardon the pun, but it's _criminal_ what they pay you."

He has a point, Grace reflects, but she just hunches her shoulders in a slight, fatalistic shrug. "Completely out of his hands, I'm afraid. Which is probably just as well, all things considered."

Leaning back and studying her with mild amusement, he inquires, "Still no respect for the Dark Arts, then?"

"You know Boyd. According to him, he'd do just as well having a tribal witch doctor on the team."

"He doesn't mean it."

"Oh, I know _that_. Why do you think I stay?"

Simon smirks. "Well – "

"Don't say it," Grace interrupts hastily. "It was an entirely rhetorical question."

"They're the most interesting kind, I find," he says, brushing a few stray breadcrumbs off his thick coat. "So? Are you going to tell me, or are you going to let me suffer?"

"Tell you what?" is her deadpan reply. It isn't often she gets the chance to turn the tables on him, and she's determined to make the most of it.

Exasperated, Simon throws his free hand up into the air. " _Fine_. Keep me on tenterhooks. I don't care."

"Good." She knows he's close to cracking, can see it in his increasingly sulky expression.

"You're _so_ infuriating."

Not at all offended by the strident accusation, Grace nods. "So I've been told."

"Rex?" he guesses, several moments later. "The chap from the Personality Disorders Steering Group. Don't think I didn't notice you taking a shine to him."

"Not Rex," she says, shaking her head as she pictures the lanky, bespectacled man in question. "He's very interesting, but simply not my type, I'm afraid."

"Far too tame?" Simon suggests with a knowing wink. "He might surprise you, you know."

Grimacing, she retorts, "I doubt it. He collects South American stamps. _And_ he plays golf."

He feigns a shudder. "Oh, well, enough said. Please don't tell me it's that dreadful Scottish fellow, Buchanan? I know everyone thinks he's quite, quite brilliant, but, Christ, he's dull. I had to sit next to him once at a conference in – "

"Are we going to go through a complete list of every single man you happen to know that I've met in the last year?" Grace interjects, half-amused and half-irritable. "Because if we are, this is going to be one of the dullest lunch breaks on record."

The clear grey eyes study her for several long, silent seconds. Nothing at all in his expression changes as he finally says in a resigned tone, "Oh. Oh, I see. Well, I really should have known, shouldn't I?"

He's worked it out. Still, Grace raises her eyebrows at him. "Should have known what?"

"I told you, darling, you can't kid a kidder. _Peter-bloody-Boyd_ , that's what. I'm right, aren't I?"

Really, she's only surprised that it took him so long. Maintaining a straight face, she says, "You think I'd go back there?"

He snorts. "Of _course_ you bloody would. Like a shot. And you _have_ , haven't you?"

There would be no point in denying it, even if she wanted to. She doesn't want to. She offers a slight, nonchalant shrug. "What can I say? I have a thing for dark eyes."

"Huh," Simon says, sounding disgusted. "What you have, Grace, is a 'thing' for good-looking scoundrels."

"You might be right," she admits, well-aware of the number of attractive but highly unsuitable men she's fallen for in the course of her life. It's not that she's a bad judge of character, she just… likes them. Too much for her own damn good, as her late mother might have said.

"It's a very interesting phenomenon," he comments. "As one psychologist to another. Terribly Freudian, I'm sure. When?"

"Three weeks ago," Grace confesses. A late evening at the office, a long, increasingly-frank conversation…

Simon looks outraged. "Three _weeks_ ago? And I'm only just finding this out now because…?"

"I had to prepare myself for the inevitable interrogation."

"Peter Boyd."

"Yes."

" _Again_."

"Yes."

Her companion shakes his head. "Oh, Grace… He's really _very_ pretty, I grant you, and deeply fascinating as a character study, but after what happened last time…?"

"Oh, I know," she says, refusing to look at him. "I know. I don't expect you to understand."

"I didn't say anything about not understanding," Simon reproves. "Believe me, I've always seen the attraction, but… Well, it didn't end well before, did it? Perhaps if you didn't work together…"

"This time," she says, knowing she sounds defensive, "we know exactly what we're getting into. Where the potential problems and pitfalls are."

"If you say so," Simon sniffs, finishing his sandwich and once against fastidiously brushing away crumbs. Curiosity seems to get the better of him. "Well? How did it happen? Don't tell me, you both got disgracefully drunk and accidentally fell on each other like slavering wolves?"

Grace laughs at the vivid images his words conjure up in her mind. There's been a time or two… Still chuckling, she says, "I know you'll be bitterly disappointed, but it was actually far more prosaic than that."

"That _is_ disappointing. So, what? Your eyes just met over the photocopier one afternoon, and that was that?"

"Simon, since the last major office reorganisation Boyd doesn't even know where the photocopier _is_. He doesn't need to – he just bellows for the nearest minion whenever necessary."

Simon chuckles along with her for a moment, then says, "I suppose, if I was to make an educated guess, I'd say the… your illness… was responsible."

"Cancer," she says, projecting the word with quiet confidence. "Naming things helps reduce the traumatic power they have over us, isn't that what we teach people as psychologists?"

He nods. "It is, indeed. But you're not one of my patients, darling, you're a dear friend who's been through a terrible ordeal. And I'm not just talking about… cancer. You'll forgive me if I succumb to the urge to treat you as if you're made of glass for just a little while longer."

"If it makes you feel better," she says, but not unkindly. She understands. Even in death, Linda Cummings still casts a long shadow.

"It does, rather," he says with a solemn nod. "You have friends who love you, darling."

Embarrassed by the words, Grace manages a fleeting, uncomfortable smile. "I know, and I'm very grateful for it."

Staring straight ahead, Simon folds his arms across his chest and says, "People never know what to say when dreadful things happen, do they? So they stay away, thinking it's for the best. It's not, of course, but…" He shrugs helplessly. "I think I'm trying to apologise for not becoming more involved. I should have known better, but I suppose I thought – "

"Simon," she interrupts, unable to bear his self-recrimination, "it's all right. I understand. Besides, I really wasn't feeling particularly sociable."

He casts her a quick, amused sideways glance. "With one tall, elegant, deliciously handsome exception?"

"He just wouldn't go away," she says, not sure if she's complaining or not. "You know how stubborn he is, how thick-skinned he can be when it suits him."

A soft, amused snort. "Oh, yes. You needed it, though."

"I did," Grace admits, recalling the breezy impatience that forced her to confront her incipient depression on several notable occasions, despite the harsh, angry words she threw at him in reply. "I knew all along he wasn't as impervious as he was pretending, but it was such a relief to have someone I could rage at… someone I didn't need to, well, _mollycoddle_."

Simon nods. "People forget, don't they, how debilitating it is for someone who's already ill to have to keep putting on a brave face for their friends and relations?"

"Exactly," she agrees, relieved that he understands. "But with Boyd… Well, our relationship has always been so tumultuous that a few more angry words here and there was never going to make a blind bit of difference."

They are both silent for a few moments, and then Simon gives her another sideways look. "Did you throw things at him?"

Swallowing the last mouthful of her sandwich, Grace shakes her head. "I didn't, I'm afraid. I really should have made the most of the opportunity, shouldn't I?"

"It would seem a little remiss of you." A contemplative pause. "He lived up to his name, then."

"Eh?"

"Peter, the Rock. From _petros_ , meaning stone. It's Greek, darling."

"I _know_." Scowling at him for a moment, she continues, "It was a difficult time, but it did give us the opportunity to realise…"

"How much you both still cared?"

It's a succinct but perfect analysis. Grace nods. "Yes. If you like."

"Peter Boyd," Simon muses again. "You've forgiven him, then? For his little… indiscretion."

The bitter memories stir, but they don't hurt the way they used to. Pulling on her warm winter gloves, she says, "Sarah, you mean? Nothing to forgive."

"I'm sorry?" His scathing sarcasm is more than obvious. "I'm fairly sure I remember spending any _number_ of long evenings pouring Merlot down your throat while you wept and wailed and cursed the pair of them to high heaven."

He's exaggerating. Somewhat. Deciding not to challenge him over it, Grace says, "Well, I have a little more perspective now. At the time, everything was still so raw… I mean, we'd only just ended things, and suddenly there he was, rushing off to New York to see her every time she snapped her bloody fingers."

A dry chuckle precedes, "Ah ha. Forgiven, but not entirely _forgotten_ , then."

"It did sting," she admits, not prepared to lie, "but I've had time to reflect on my own part in it."

"Stop right there," Simon tells her, his tone mild but firm. "Peter is entirely responsible for his own decisions, as are we all. The pair of you may have decided it was time to call it quits, but it was _his_ choice to go off with someone else five minutes later."

"Of course it was," she snaps, her patience wearing thin, "but perhaps he wouldn't have done if I hadn't – "

"Grace."

The spectre of that final vicious argument still haunts her whenever she allows herself to think about it. Not Boyd's thoughtless, angry words, born from confusion and frustration, from his inability to deal with their bruising split without letting his bitterness spill out elsewhere, but the infinitely more spiteful ones that she'd thrown straight back at him. The terrible way he'd remained seated, still, and silent, staring at nothing and not moving a muscle as she'd gone to her office, collected her things and said her goodbyes to Stella and Spencer. "I hurt him, Simon. I really hurt him."

His reply is gentle, considered. "You hurt _each other_ , darling. All that squabbling because you couldn't separate your private lives from your professional ones… it was never going to end well."

Looking up at the cold grey winter sky, she says, "Call me naïve, but at first I really thought we'd be able to be civilised about it. Oh, I expected things to be awkward between us for a little while, but he was so… antagonistic. The whole thing became so…"

"Toxic?" Simon suggests. "It's hardly surprising you ended up telling him a few home truths, is it?"

"And look where it got me."

"And now?" he prompts gently.

Grace almost shrugs. "Well, it's not as if we've rushed straight back into things, is it? It's been more than eighteen months since he split up with her. A lot has happened in that time. We're not the same people, either of us." Shivering slightly, she adds a heartfelt, "Would you mind if we got up and walked? I'm freezing, just sitting here."

"Of course not," he says, standing up and putting their rubbish in the wire bin beside the bench before helping her to her feet. He offers a chivalrous arm which she takes without a thought. He's solemn as he says, "The last time I saw Peter to talk to properly, he was quite clearly putting a brave face on things. I thought about suggesting some grief counselling, but… Well, I assumed you were already beating that particular drum."

Grace nods as they start to walk along the gravel path, instinctively heading towards the ornamental duck pond on the west side of the park. "Oh, I was. Didn't do any good, of course. He internalises everything, doesn't see the point in talking about it. Professional opinion?"

"Go on."

"I think it's going to take him years to really come to terms with Luke's death, if he ever does."

Simon nods. "I have to concur. Are you prepared to deal with that?"

It's something she's thought about at length, always in the knowledge that for her, there was only one realistic answer. She voices it now, saying, "Whatever else he may or may not be, he's my _friend_ , Simon. I have a responsibility to deal with it, don't you think?"

"Hm," he replies, not sounding convinced. "As long as you remember that you're his lover, not his therapist."

"I gave up trying to be that _years_ ago, trust me."

"Really?" He sounds sceptical.

" _Really_ ," Grace insists, adjusting her hold on his arm as they continue to walk side-by-side along the path. "It's a thankless task, and _far_ too exhausting."

"I'd love to get him on the couch, myself."

"Simon!"

He smirks down at her, a definite glint of wicked amusement in his grey eyes. "I meant, professionally."

"Of _course_ you did," is her sardonic retort.

"Three weeks, eh?" he says, changing the subject. "And everything's going well? Physically, I mean?"

It's blunt, even for Simon. Giving him a guarded look, she asks, "Why wouldn't it be?"

His response is simple and direct. "Darling, you had a lumpectomy. I'd be a poor excuse for a psychologist if I didn't know the sort of problems _that_ can cause in a relationship. Insecurity, altered body image…"

"Oh." She doesn't know what else to say. He's right, of course, and they both know it. Her self-esteem has certainly taken a thorough battering over the last few difficult months.

He doesn't let the matter drop. "So there _is_ a problem?"

"No. Yes. Oh, I don't know. Maybe." Trying to analyse her now racing thoughts, Grace sighs. "Women like him."

"Not just _women_ , darling," Simon points out, his tone arch.

"You know what I mean," is her irritable reply. Sometimes he can be almost as insensitive as Boyd himself. "Women like him, and he likes _them_."

"So?"

"So…" she begins, wondering how honest she can bring herself to be, "I look at myself in the mirror sometimes and I can't help wondering…"

As a young man wearing a cheap business suit cycles past them, Simon shakes his head. "You do _know_ you're being completely ridiculous, don't you? Grace, we both know he's an attractive man. If he's with you, it's because he _wants_ to be, not because you're his only option."

Not sure if she should be offended or not, she mutters, "Thanks. I think."

"Cancer… it can have a terrible effect on a person's confidence, for all sorts of reasons," he continues, his voice gentle. "I've seen patients that have ended up with a _horribly_ distorted perception of themselves due to illness or injury. It's a perfectly normal psychological reaction to physical change, you know that."

"What does _he_ see, though?" she demands. "An old woman with – "

"He sees a great pair of tits, for a start," Simon interrupts, and grins at the withering look she gives him in return. "Men are simple creatures, darling. Besides…" He stops, lets the sentence trail away.

She frowns. "'Besides'? Besides, _what_?"

"Well, you know," he half-smirks, "I was going to say, I've seen _him_ naked… but then I thought better of it."

Not what she expected to hear. Not at _all_. Literally stopping mid-stride, she says, "Boyd? _Naked_? When? How…?"

Simon laughs. "Oh, dear. Your _face_ , darling. Don't look at me like that, it was all perfectly innocent."

"Do go on," she says, though she doesn't doubt he's telling the truth, "I really can't _wait_ to hear the explanation."

"Tennis?" he offers, as if it should be obvious. "That charity tournament thing Lochlan and Elaine organised at their tennis club a few years back?"

Grace remembers it. Vividly. White tennis shorts and… well, it's probably best not to dwell on just how much fun she had as a spectator that weekend. It was worth every damn penny, anyway. Elaine dragooned both Simon and Boyd into playing, the latter reaching the semi-finals before being knocked out by Lochlan himself. She still doesn't see the connection, however. "Yes…?"

Simon's amused tone matches his expression as he drawls, "You've never been in a men's changing-room, I take it?"

"Why on _earth_ would I have been?"

"Fair point," he says with a chuckle. "Well, let's just say that men of _our_ age went to school in the era when team sports still went hand-in-hand with enforced nudity in the communal showers. We didn't grow up bashful."

"Oh." Grace really doesn't know what else to say.

"One isn't supposed to look, of course," Simon continues with just a fraction too much glee, "but I do thoroughly enjoy a spot of innocent voyeurism now and again. _You_ might have had a lumpectomy, Grace, but stripped down to his birthday suit your handsome policeman looks rather like he once had a minor altercation with a particularly bad-tempered tiger. Or tigress, I suppose."

"He was stabbed," she explains, not needing to hear more. Unwelcome memories surface of that eerie, blue-lit cellar fuzzily displayed on her monitor. She'd felt so helpless, stuck in her office watching the awful drama with Reece Dickson unfold miles away with no ability to stop it. So helpless, so completely _useless_. "Twice. During one of the CCU's early investigations. He was rushed to hospital, but they couldn't stop the bleeding, so they had to do a laparotomy."

"Really?" He sounds both appalled and fascinated. "Well, that would certainly explain the scarring. Do you find it repulsive?"

Repulsive? Why on _earth_ would he think such a thing? She was shocked, perhaps, the first time she saw the full extent of the brutal legacy of that dreadful day for herself, but not repulsed. Never that. "Of _course_ not."

"There you are, then." Simon shakes his head. "We all have scars of one kind or another, Grace."

"Very clever," she tells him, realising what he's done. Such a simple trick, but remarkably effective. "You should be a psychologist."

He smiles down at her, then offers an arch, "The scarring wasn't the _only_ thing I noticed."

"Stop it," she warns, knowing him far too well. It's pure mischief, of course. Harmless.

Simon feigns innocence. "What? I was just going to say that you're a very lucky girl, darling."

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she chides, refusing to show any hint of amusement. "Poor Boyd; he'd be absolutely mortified if he knew."

"He was the one prancing about naked," he points out, as they approach the pond.

"Now I _know_ you're exaggerating. Boyd doesn't prance."

"Maybe not," Simon concedes, grinning, "but I can assure you, he _was_ naked. I remember it quite distinctly."

Feeling rather sorry for her absent partner, Grace rolls her eyes again. "I'm sure you do."

"Great thighs," he adds, "and – "

" _Stop it_ ," she orders for the second time. "I really don't need a running commentary from you on his… attributes."

" _Sizable_ attributes, as I recall," Simon comments.

Fighting the inappropriate urge to give in and laugh, Grace does her best to pin him with a frosty glare. " _Simon_."

He _does_ laugh. Loud and long, and not at all repentant. "Oh, darling, you can be _so_ parochial."

"You're incorrigible," she accuses. "Absolutely incorrigible."

For a few moments they stand together in amiable silence at the edge of pond watching the few hardy ducks that mill around hopefully waiting for titbits. There are still very few other people in the park, and despite its central London location, it's a surprisingly peaceful place to be. It's Simon who re-starts the conversation, asking, "Will it work this time? You and him?"

It's a question Grace has asked herself a great many times over the last few weeks. She gives him the only honest answer she can. "I hope so."

"I hate to say it, but he's good for you." Simon pauses, then adds, "It's the challenge, I suppose. Brings out the very best in you. When you're with him, you sparkle."

Surprised, she asks, "Do I?"

"You do," he confirms with a nod. "I have to admit there have been times when I've genuinely wanted to strangle him on your behalf, but he lights you up. In more ways than one, presumably."

"You're worryingly obsessed with my sex life, Simon," she teases, arching a single eyebrow at him.

He shrugs good-naturedly in return. "It's good-old-fashioned prurience, I'm afraid. You have that look about you."

Sure that she'll regret it, Grace inquires, "What look?"

A decidedly wicked grin is followed by, "The one that suggests that you two have a _very_ good time together behind closed doors."

"Oh, _that_ look." She smirks to herself, not caring if Simon sees or not. It's not something to be ashamed of, after all. Indeed, she rather feels that such striking… intimate compatibility… should be celebrated. Doubly so in life's later years. "Well, for what it's worth, he certainly knows which buttons to press. And when."

"I bet he bloody does."

Silence falls between them again. Contemplative, this time, as if Simon is momentarily as preoccupied with his own thoughts as she is. Not for the first time she wonders about his long relationship with Ian – whether it is really as solid and stable as it appears to be. She hopes it is.

"So," she eventually says, tentative but determined, "you're not angry with me, then?"

"Angry with you?" Simon looks bewildered, "Why on _earth_ would I be angry with you?"

"For letting my heart rule my head." It's the best explanation Grace can think of.

He looks surprised. "Darling, it's none of my damn business who you choose to see. Or anyone else's, for that matter. Do you want my blessing, or something?"

"Maybe," she admits, deciding he's probably very close to the truth. His opinion matters to her more than most. "You said it yourself, it was you who ended up picking up the pieces last time."

"I'm your friend," Simon announces, "and as such, I just want you to be happy. And for some inexplicable reason, Peter Boyd makes you happy. Most of the time."

"'Inexplicable reason'?" she queries, only half in jest.

He shrugs. "Figure of speech. Don't forget, I do actually _like_ the man, Grace. He's… dependable."

It's not the first word she would have chosen to describe Boyd, admittedly, but perhaps Simon has a point. Even so, she says, "I'm not sure he'd be thrilled with _that_ as an epitaph."

"He is, though," her companion presses, "and anyone who can't see that is a fool. You have that in common – dependability. Loyalty. You bring out the best in each other."

"And the worst," Grace can't help adding. There are few people in the world who can get under her skin the way Peter Boyd can, and even fewer who can rile her up quite so fast. He's always delighted in his ability to do it, too, which is even more infuriating. She's never met anyone else so adept at creating a blazing argument from nothing at all.

"Without darkness there is no light," is Simon's philosophical reply. "That's what they say, isn't it?"

"Whoever 'they' are," she murmurs, watching two ducks fighting over some tasty morsel they have discovered. It might be some kind of analogy. Or not.

"Do you love him?" The question is as sudden as it is direct.

She doesn't need to think about the answer. "You know I do."

"Then I'm happy for you," Simon replies. He pats her gloved hand where it rests in the crook of his other arm. "Bring him round for dinner one evening next week. He and Ian can talk about the Marsden trial, and you and I can get disgracefully drunk together."

It's an appealing idea, but… "No."

"No?" He looks baffled. "Why not?"

"Oh, we'll come to dinner," Grace tells him, "but you and I are _not_ getting drunk. Not in front of Boyd."

He pouts. "Coward."

She nods, unruffled. "If you like."

"You don't trust yourself?"

"It's _you_ I don't trust, Simon," she informs him. "A few glasses of red, and suddenly we'll be back to your observations at the tennis club."

"Well, that's all right," is his cheerful reply, "it's not as if he's got anything to be ashamed of, has he?"

He'll never change. And thank God for it. "You see, that's _exactly_ my point – you'll end up saying something like that in front of him, and _I'll_ be the one who has to deal with the fallout afterwards."

Once again, Simon laughs. "You know me _far_ too well, darling."

"I do," she agrees with an easy smile, "and yet, somehow, I still like you."

"Good. I like you, too. _Enormously_. I fear, however, that today time is running out on us…"

Checking her watch, Grace pulls a face. "It's back to the dungeon I go, then. Give my love to Ian."

"I will. Likewise, give my regards to Peter. Tell him I said he really doesn't deserve you."

"Oh," she replies, stretching up to place a kiss on his cheek, "he doesn't need to be told _that_ , trust me. He already knows it."

"Don't forget about dinner," Simon says, giving her a brief but solid hug in return. "Call me with some dates, and we'll arrange it. Don't leave it too long."

"I won't," she assures him, meaning it. "Enjoy your afternoon."

"I'll try my best," he tells her, and then, as she starts to walk away, adds a loud, "and, Grace…?"

She looks back, raising her eyebrows in query.

Simon smiles beatifically. "You really are a _very_ lucky girl. From what I saw at the tennis club, he's – "

"Simon!" Grace chastises, every bit as fierce and stern as she can manage, but as she heads back alone towards the gate, she doesn't bother to suppress the broad grin that quickly becomes a real and very amused chuckle.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
